


Disentangled

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rope Bondage, Science Experiments, Tentacles, tentacle!lock, tentaclelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started innocently enough.  Just a single color coded silk ribbon secured in a loose knot at the center of each tentacle.  Violet for the violin, blue for food, red for Sherlock's more hazardous experiments.  John had suggested the idea after cleaning up one too many multitasking mishaps.  Neither man could know the doors it would open for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Origin Story

The first few seconds were smoke and glass and John bounding up the steps, dragging his bloodied flatmate away from the scene of the explosion. Shopping forgotten at the front door, the doctor had switched to medic mode, eyes sweeping the kitchen for any remaining threats before settling the stunned madman into their sitting room. He opened the windows, turned off the bunsen burner, hissing at the sting of superheated metal under his fingers. But in this moment his pain was secondary. The shredded housecoat stripped away, Sherlock’s bloodied shirt was peeled back with only a fraction more care and he was ushered into the bathroom. The next twenty minutes were all antiseptic, gauze and tweezers. The steady clink clink of glass shrapnel dropped into the sink interrupted only by Sherlock’s hisses and moans as he came back around and took in his situation. A grimace and apologetic grin was all the detective mustered before letting his eyes fall back closed.

Once every bit of the shattered beaker had been removed, thirty eight pieces, John had kept count, Sherlock was carefully stripped and bathed. Futile attempts were made to swat away rough hands and stand on one’s own before the pale tower trembled, collapsed back into his caretaker and gave in. The medical detachment of the situation held back any cause for shame or blush as Sherlock was scrubbed, rinsed and toweled. Once pink and sated by paracetamol, plasters and gauze were carefully applied to the larger lacerations and the placated detective was guided to his bed for some much needed rest.

“But the kitchen,” Sherlock began, shifting his legs awkwardly beneath the sheets. He sniffed at the air, something still lingered, acrid and faintly familiar. Like a fried food he couldn’t quite place. _Angelo’s perhaps_ , his shocked and medicated mind offered.

“I will clean it. I always do anyway. Just stay here, try to get some sleep. I will have to change your bandages in a few hours.”

“But--,” Sherlock looked stricken. Something felt off, wrong. John shouldn’t have to keep cleaning up his experiments. But the words wouldn’t come. He just looked up at the kind face tucking him in, smoothing his duvet and setting more pills next to a fresh glass.

“I promise, I’m not mad. I’m just glad you’re not hurt.” John frowned then, remembering his panic. Opening the door to 221B just as the sound of shattering glass and a stifled yelp shook through him. He was hit full force with memories of Afghanistan, with his visions of the blackened bricks just across the street, the weight of the vest he’d been forced into by Moriarty’s men. “Well, any worse than you are.” He forced a smile, patted his flatmate gently on the cheek and exited.

Two hours after the incident John binned the last bits of glass and unidentified ooze from the floor and countertops. He checked his watch and decided it was time to reassess the injured source of the disaster when a muffled whine came from Sherlock’s room.

Rushing to the door, John stopped and listened. “Sherlock?” he asked softly, stepping into the dimly lit room. Stretched across the bed was six feet of lanky genius, writhing and moaning behind closed eyes, duvet kicked aside. A sheen of sweat bloomed over his brow and chest as he twisted and arched across the tangled sheets. “Sh-Sherlock?” John asked again, stepping closer, hand outstretched, ready to touch and check for a fever. “Are you awake?”

“John?” Sherlock’s eyes shot open, blinking and focusing on the intruder before familiarity replaced panic. “Oh god, John, please. It itches,” he begged. His hands were twisted in the sheets, apparently resisting every temptation to scratch at his bandages.

John laughed, heart rate settling as the threat was assessed as non fatal. “Sherlock, you berk, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” the doctor teased. His own smile calming the taller man who had finally ceased squirming. “Sit up and flip over, don’t scratch, I’ll be right back.” His face and eyes were soft, reassuring, all bedside manner and kindness. Sherlock felt something else, between his words, behind that look. But he was too itchy to think it over.

As promised, the sandy haired doctor returned with anti-itch ointment and a handful of pills just as Sherlock sat up. “Take these. A small sleep aid to help keep you from picking at your bandages all night. I also have a numbing cream I’ll apply to the redder areas while I change out the gauze and plasters. How are you feeling?”

“As I said, I am itchy, John,” Sherlock pouted, lips wet and puffy as he swallowed the offered medicine and settled the glass back on his nightstand. John blinked, pulling his gaze away from those too pink lips and back to the injuries peppering Sherlock’s once perfect skin. “I meant pain, smartarse. Are you in any pain?”

“Oh, no, the pain is all but numb now. It’s just.. a tickle beneath my skin, John. I hate it,” Sherlock groaned and flopped on his belly, hands pinned beneath him, resisting every urge to claw his own skin off.

“In that case, I believe I can help,” John began removing the old bandages carefully before uncapping the cream. The next few minutes were all moans and lotion. Strong calloused hands rubbing and massaging across every scratch and gash while Sherlock allowed himself to sink further into the mattress and relax. He giggled once or twice as stray fingers indulged in a bit of exploration. Stopping once the doctor’s face flushed and an internal voice scolded him.

Attempting to distract himself, John spoke, “What were you even trying to do Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” the groggy detective answered into his pillow before turning his head to look up. “Interrogations are better conducted before administering sleep aids, doctor,” he teased.

John let loose his most put upon sigh and reapplied anti-itch cream, waiting for his patient to elaborate.

“Dionaea muscipula, John.”

“Venus flytrap?”

“Yes, but no, it was the-- wait why do you know that term?”

“Uni Biology project-- hang on, why would you use the term and not assume I knew it?”

“According to you, I’m a right bastard and a showoff.”

“Both true, but do continue.” John grinned, before adding a polite, “please?”

“Oh, yes. The beaker that exploded, pity I had just purchased that one, contained GFP the aequorin protein of hydromedusa--”

“hydro… Jellyfish? So wait you were--”

“I had planned to isolate certain chemicals in the so-called glow gene--”

“And what? Make glowing plants?”

“Something like that. Yes.”

John simply stared, hands frozen in awe at the man beneath him. The things he did out of boredom, just to kill time. God, if Sherlock Holmes put his mind to the right fields of study, it was scary to think what he could accomplish. Blinking back, he continued, “So what happened?”

“I don’t believe I was sent the right protein. Suspicious at first glance, I had attempted to conduct a small sample test when... well, boom,” Sherlock shifted, looking up with a grin and a wink to highlight the end of his tale before snuffling back into the overstuffed pillow. John was left to mull the conversation over, hmm hmming and massaging the remainder of the cream along every puffy pink line as Sherlock fell silent. Assuming the injured man had finally settled back to sleep, John stopped his hands and leaned to whisper, “Okay there, uh, mate?” He gagged on the word, it felt so stupid and.. wrong. Sitting up, he shook Sherlock’s shoulder gently, and when no reply came, walked to the bathroom to toss the old bandages and return with fresh ones. Once every cut was cared for, John refilled the water and left a fresh dose of paracetamol for the morning.

Too tired for tea or supper, the exhausted doctor groaned and collapsed into his chair. His own burns unattended and forgotten.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well.. that's certainly a new feeling.

Sherlock had a crick in his neck and a throbbing pain down the center of his back. His bed was lumpy, uncomfortable and misaligned. Attempts to open his eyes were rebuffed by sunshine and migraine colliding to wreak havoc on his temples. He reasoned that the duvet or extra pillow had bunched beneath him and squirmed side to side, trying his best to adjust without success. In a huff he finally yelled out, “John!”

No answer. He listened intently. There was nothing, no shuffling about, no creaking floorboards. Sniffing he could pick up traces of tea, jam and toast but they were faint, hours old. However John’s cologne and aftershave still hung heavy in the air around him. He couldn’t have been gone more than twenty minutes.

“John?” the distressed man pleaded to an empty flat. Rolling away from the window, he reached down blindly, pulled the not-bunched-under-him duvet over his head and carefully opened his eyes. Blinking he eased the cover back, adjusting in increments to the light until he could see the glass of water, two paracetamol and a note with his flatmate’s practiced physician scrawl.

**Gone to Tesco for more bandages and ointment. Back by 1p. J**

Sighing, Sherlock flopped back to his bumpy, uncomfortable mattress and groaned. Fingers steepled beneath his chin the detective replayed the previous evening in his mind. Beaker holding a saline solution with the GFP protein but something was off, the PH reading too high. He set the beaker aside, took a small pipette sample and oh, he had nudged the bunsen burner too close to the ethyl tube. Time slows. He can see the small fire spread, collide with the beaker and pipette, his body turning from the blast, catching glass shrapnel across his upper back and neck. The acrid smell of burning danced across his senses. _Angelo’s? Why Angelo’s... oh! Calamari! It was squid then. Wrong protein. No wonder the PH was off._ Lost in thought, mentally mapping what equipment was damaged and needed to be replaced, Sherlock began to rub the pain in his temple before reaching out to grab pills and water. He took them quickly and sighed back into his pillow, reminding himself to thank John for being so thoughtful.

Setting the glass back down, Sherlock froze. His eyes flew open and looked down slowly to see his hands still steepled beneath his chin. _How?_ Turning his head to the nightstand he blinked and blinked again. The panic creeping up his skin quickly rivaled Baskerville and showed no sign of waning. He stared and stared. Willing himself to wake up and explain the impossible vision away as a surreal dream.

After a full minute of blinking with his mouth forming small fish imitations, the detective accepted his visual data as truth. There were tapered appendages reaching from behind him ( _ah, the lumps_ ) each one a vibrant mix of deep purples and blues. He could see four but reasoned there were most likely more. Excited wriggling beyond the edge of his vision reaffirming the suspicion. The two responsible for medicating his migraine were still messing about the nightstand. One tapping in impatience and the other slowly trailing over John’s note. _Interesting_. Sherlock thought. _A good sign they are at least somewhat controlled by my mind_.

His focus now overstimulated with new information, Sherlock sprung from bed and opened his wardrobe. The full length mirror within providing him a wider range of observable data. Five. Six. short tentacle arms. That was rather the best word for them. Each measuring about one meter that he could see. And the two most helpful appendages, a bit longer and thicker. _Ah yes, teuthida. Tentacles proper then_.

Sherlock held each squirming arm and tentacle up for inspection. Making note of the gradual color changes, deeper purples at the tip fading into a soft blue where they met his skin. Each arm was lined in tiny suckers. He poked each cup with his finger, noting the vacuum created and sensitivity range. Sensitivity for each arm seemed to increase the closer he got to the base though without an assistant it was difficult to see his own back. It wasn’t until the third tentacle that Sherlock realized he was moving them the same way he would move an arm or a leg. Just thinking it and letting the muscle move itself.

Excited to gather more data, he began experimenting with picking up random items in the room. His discarded clothes. The empty glass. John’s note. Confidence built, he giggled while fluffing his pillow between the two main limbs while focused on two more straightening the duvet. Managing more than two at a time was a bit difficult and hard to do if he used his hands at the same time. But difficult did not mean impossible. Taken as a challenge, Sherlock began rifling through his sock index, focusing on simultaneous movements as he rolled and unrolled multiple pairs. Testing his limitations. So lost in his newfound polymelia, Sherlock jumped in shock at John’s voice just outside his door.

“Sherlock?” John knocked once then opened the door when his flatmate did not reply.

All at once, the tentacles were gone. John walked in to see the injured madman flailing about, seemingly trying to scratch an itch he couldn’t quite reach. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, how many times do I have to tell you not to scratch at your wounds?” John looked positively peevish: foot tapping, hand on his hip, Tesco bag drooping with his frown.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock answered, cringing at the whine that escaped with his words. “Nevermind that, I need your medical expertise, John. Quick, come here. Look at my back. Look. Do you see anything odd?”

John could hear the panic in his friend’s voice and did not need to be asked again. Dropping the medical supplies, he crossed the room, sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and with shushing and calming hums he eased the taller man to kneel on the carpet between his knees. “Okay, I’ve got you Sherlock. Just relax, lean forward, right there, perfect. Now don’t move.” John carefully removed the previous night’s bandages. The top layer knocked loose from Sherlock’s flailing. Most of the smaller cuts had already begun to close up and heal. John leaned in closer, gentle fingers prodding each of the larger cuts, checking for any sign of infection or increased pain. “Does anything hurt more than last night, Sherlock?”

“No, it’s not pain I…” _think I might have tentacles coming out of my back._ But he couldn’t form the words for fear that voicing the things would somehow void their existence. “J-John!” Sherlock tensed and yelped as a single digit stroked down his spine to just above the elastic of his pants. John chuckled low and dirty and in no way professionally before clearing his throat. “Ahem, sorry Sherlock. Just checking for any irregular bumps or bruising along your spine. Should have warned you.”

“Yes, right, well check higher, near my shoulder blades,” Sherlock shivered, drawing his knees in closer to helpfully hide how affected he’d been by that particular touch. He held his breath as the increasingly too hot touch of his flatmate, his doctor and his friend worked up his rib cage, across the jut of each scapula. A treacherous sigh escaping his lips as hot breath was suddenly too close to his neck. “John!” The doctor leaped back at his name, stammering out an apology.

“S-Sorry, I just, there looked like, I thought I saw something, had to get.. um.. closer.” Cautiously, John leaned back in, careful to take shallow breaths. Just below Sherlock’s left shoulder blade there was a particularly nasty cut from one of the larger pieces of glass. John swore he could see a tiny ripple in the skin, almost like a mole. Tracing two fingers over the bump he found three more just like it, lined in a neat row, evenly spaced just below the bone. Rising his other hand to the same area on Sherlock’s right side, he found identical bumps in the flesh. John opened his mouth to speak when he felt the trembling beneath his touch and pulled back. Sherlock was shivering, breathing in tiny gasps.

“Sherlock?” John panicked, jumped from the bed to sit in front of his flatmate. His face was flushed, clear signs of hyperventilating and his eyes were wide but distant. John had a terrifying flashback to that night on the moor and put a steadying hand to his friend’s knee to ground him. “Sherlock, I need you to hear me. Listen to my voice. You need to control your breathing. In… out… in… out...Okay?”

“I-- I--,” Sherlock gasped, eyes swimming in and out of focus. “Okay…” Sherlock closed his eyes, let his hand clasp over John’s and took control of his lungs in time with the steady cadence of that soothing voice. A long moment passed before Sherlock stopped shaking and gasping. He kept his hand over John’s, reluctant to lose the contact as he slowly reopened his eyes. “John,” he whispered the name like a prayer. His smile a token of gratitude. John closed the small space between them, moving both hands up and around his flatmate’s shoulders to pull Sherlock in for a hug. Fingers calmly stroking up and down his back.

They had hugged only a few times before. Never with so much exposed flesh. John was still processing all the new information coursing through his body when he felt something like a licking. A warm gentle tickle across his fingers. He stopped stroking and sat back, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, waiting for some explanation. But the madman simply shrugged, “I think they like you.”

“They? Wha--” John’s eyes bulged. The feeling was back, like a warm tongue teasing between his digits. But not just one, many. It felt, pleasant but foreign. Daring to peek over Sherlock’s shoulder he saw them. Tiny tentacle arms protruding from each of the eight rippled spots. His mind screamed in revulsion. His legs locked up, heart rate skyrocketing as his mouth fell open in a silent scream. His whole body flailed between fight or flight scenarios. But the touch, the teasing, they were so warm. So gentle. He couldn’t move.

Sherlock made the decision for him, pulling his doctor closer, holding him in place as the tentacles fully extended, stroking gently, petting him. John fell into the feeling of eight wriggling arms smoothing through his hair, caressing his neck, running reassuringly up and down his back. “Don’t worry, John,“ Sherlock cooed “I control them. They are a part of me it seems. And I would never harm you.”

John still found words too difficult and simply snuggled into Sherlock’s neck, humming in approval. He was moments from drifting off in a wave of feeling, closing his eyes and rocking softly into Sherlock's hip when one of the tentacles wriggled under his jumper and tweaked across his nipple.

“Sher--oh fuck!” John yelped, wrenching himself back. He was hard, painfully throbbing in his jeans.  Suddenly aware he'd been rutting in his flatmate's lap, his face flushed in embarrassment.  It was too much. Everything crashing into him at once. Sherlock touching him, all over in so many places. He was still fully dressed but his body was thrumming and dangerously close to coming in his pants.  John ran.

An hour later, he found his breath and shivered, bringing his arms up to hug himself while he shook his head and laughed. He’d run off without a coat or scarf but his concern went back to the man he’d left behind and the look of deep hurt on his face. Wracked with guilt, he sent a text to make sure Sherlock hadn’t got the wrong idea.

**It wasn’t you or them. They are fine. You’re all fine. I’ll be home soon. J**

But it would be days before Sherlock let him see his new arms again. For a man who calls himself a sociopath, his feelings were not easily mended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he doesn't have this many but i am the laziest at photoshop. :*  
> 


	3. Unfurl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like all things that occur at Baker Street, tentacles just take some getting used to.

John adapted to body parts and odd smells and constant noise bookended by long stretches of silence. He learned to love the way dinner conversation was really just Sherlock deducing aloud. He even loved violin at three in the morning and experiments that rendered half their shared kitchen unsafe for food preparation. And in the two year stretch when he’d lost all those little things, he realized just how much he had come to need them in his life. Need _him_ in his life. Everything that comprised Sherlock.

Like every adjustment before, the tentacles took time. The first few days following John's sudden outburst, Sherlock had stubbornly hid them in his flatmate's presence as punishment. Sulking. Until one quiet weekend John returned home from the office to find the detective lazing about in just his sleep trousers. Absent-mindedly multitasking with four of his eight new arms. Hesitant to pause either experiment, Sherlock let them stay and opted to ignore the good doctor instead. John made tea for them both, settling Sherlock’s cup near a dormant limb, turning the handle for him before grabbing the paper and settling into his own chair. He struggled to hide a smile as he saw the mug rise from the corner of his eye.

After that evening, they fell into a comfortable routine. Sherlock using his increased dexterity to help with menial tasks. John thanking him each time. Gratitude blooming into exchanged smiles and gentle brushes of skin. They did not discuss the hug. Or what followed. Both silently agreeing to rebuild the relationship from scratch.

John did not breach the silent truce until three weeks in. Sherlock had grown more confident in his new skin, but he had not taken any new cases. The concerned doctor could see a creeping edge in his demeanor. Increased fidgeting and irritability. Even his new limbs would nervously twist and wind about. Clenching in annoyance. Tapping nearby surfaces. Fearful of the damage a bored detective with increased range of motion could cause, John decided to pester Lestrade for a case. He shot a quick email under the guise of updating his blog then watched Sherlock receive the call. A few token noises of disregard, a faltering sigh and then he was reluctantly accepting. “That wasn’t necessary, John,” Sherlock said hanging up. He jumped from the sofa, heading for his bedroom to change. The blond faltered at being caught out, his paper shaking from stifled laughter, but he did not reply.

At the crime scene, Sherlock was swift and professional. Alarmingly non argumentative and cautiously courteous. But John stood aside frowning, watching the detective struggle with his limited reach. His own two hands clumsy from disuse. But his mind was fast and clever as ever. Rushing through the case like he had somewhere much more important to be. John wondered why Sherlock decided to keep the arms hidden. This was a closed crime scene, no one to snap photos or gossip. But the more he wondered, watching Donovan and Anderson snigger and lay into his flatmate, John could only imagine the worst. Sherlock was probably terrified.

Waiting until the genius dashed off a side alley to follow their perpetrator’s blood trail, Lestrade pulled John aside. “What’s going on with him?” John smiled as best he could, shrugged and ran off to join his partner. It would be Sherlock’s place to inform people of the changes. Not his. John decided he was just happy to have the younger man out, breathing fresh air again. Even if said air was tainted with the sticky scent of death and gunpowder.

The cab ride home was tense. John wanting to ask a multitude of questions and his mad flatmate impatiently squirming in the seat beside him. Sherlock chanced a sideways glance and sighed.  “While I appreciate your concern, truly, never do that again.”

“Sherlock?”

“I will decide when I am ready to _get back out there_ as you put it.” Sherlock was genuinely happy to know John cared for him and intended to convey as much but turning to face the doctor he was confronted by a storm. Concern and fear dancing across blue eyes. “Okay fine,” he amended. “I promise not to shoot up anymore walls if you promise to be patient with me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Once upstairs, Sherlock was a flash of motion, ripping his coat and scarf away in record time. John could only stop and stare as six feet of petulance flung himself face first into the sofa. His tentacles springing to life and stripping him further, leaving the exhausted detective in trousers and socks.

“Does it hurt, keeping them in?” the shorter man asked, removing his own coat and jumper with much more care as he sat to watch Sherlock’s tentacles stretch and curl about. They really seemed to enjoy being set free. Sherlock shifted to sit up, moaning with the deep satisfaction of someone finally scratching an itch or popping a stubborn joint.

“Hurt? No. It just feels suffocating. Cramped.”

John approached the sofa cautiously, hands hovering over the nearest tentacle. “May I?” Sherlock looked up, searching John’s face before settling the tentacle in his open palms. The army doctor’s fingers were skilled at many things, sutures and sharpshooting. But on rare occasions, after particularly strenuous cases or bodily injury, he was remarkably skilled at relaxing deep tissue massage.

Sherlock turned into the rubdown. Allowing his head to droop, unfurling tentacles across John’s lap and shoulders. Delicate surgeon hands, calloused by a life of danger, set to carefully kneading each limb in turn until Sherlock’s entire frame grew pliant. John noticed the change, gradually slowing his strokes, dropping his voice to the barest whisper in an attempt to speak without wholly unsettling the peace between them. “Would you like to watch something?” he asked, pointing to the telly.

“Hmm oh, sure,” Sherlock answered around a stifled yawn. One tentacle easily plucking the DVD remote from across the room and switching the box on, “anything you like John.” The shorter man took the remote in hand, letting his fingers linger on the soft purple skin. Reverent.

“Anything?” he teased.

“I will maintain executive veto power should you select something unbearably droll, but yes, anything.”

John grinned, flipping through channels and selecting a Bond film he’d seen at least two dozen times. Sherlock draped his tentacles behind them both and John settled in beside him. He was going to get up, make them some popcorn, but the poor doctor was exhausted and fell asleep almost immediately. Sherlock left watching the steady rise and fall of his flatmate’s breathing instead of the action on screen until he, too, was lulled into napping. And if John woke up wrapped in a warm cocoon of tentacles he said nothing. Sighing and leaning further into the warmth of Sherlock’s bare chest pressed tight against his side. When he woke again he had been moved to his chair, fire and blanket a poor replacement for his friend’s heat.

The following week went by without much incident. Sherlock still refused to leave the flat for on site casework but had compromised with Lestrade to help out with a bit of forensics consulting. John was still faced with conflicting feelings, not helped in the least by Sherlock’s growing habit of walking around topless, but reined them in for the detective’s sake as he already had enough to adjust to. Of course, some of it was beyond his control. There were longer stares, moments of awkward charged gazing over an increasing amount of accidental touches, but the fear had gone. The foreignness of Sherlock’s tentacles replaced by a calm domesticity. He would use them for everything. Something John realized one morning he had adjusted to like everything else. Until it all went a bit not good.

Sherlock was sat in the kitchen running tests on mold and growth patterns for a case. His hands and two tentacles flitting about with test tubes, slides and notes. But he was also composing a new piece on his violin for Mrs. Hudson’s birthday. John had asked him to make tea since he was already within reach of the kettle so two more tentacles set about turning on the stove and pulling mugs down from the cabinet. Then, Sherlock’s phone rang and everything fell apart. While trying to answer the call, he found all ten limbs otherwise engaged and hastily scrambled to free them.  His violin clattered and plopped into the sink, the boiling kettle poured over his music stand, soaking the carpet and his composition. And John’s tea was served up with a glass slide displaying what looked to be a new strain of black mold.

His tentacles contracted as Sherlock flushed a deep red, looking stricken and panicked. Waiting to be yelled at. But John simply laughed, walking to the sink to dump his tea and grab a flannel for the carpet. “I think we need to work out a new system, yeah?” He let his fingers brush the curls at his flatmate’s nape as he passed by, a little known method to sooth the man. The blond maintained his smile, whistling the tune Sherlock had been working on until they were both grinning like imbeciles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't do that again, John!"  
> 


	4. Taut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instructions are for babies. I make my own rules.

In the morning, John nipped off to the shops for supplies. Like all of history’s best ideas, his had come to him in a dream. The particulars of which are best left unshared should Sherlock come across this story and beat the poor doctor black and blue. Petticoats John, really?

John’s solution was simple. Eight ribbons in different shades attached to each tentacle. Each color coded for a unique task. Sherlock stood by the window rewriting his composition from the previous evening while the doctor worked behind him. “Violet for the violin,” he’d explained holding up the first strip of shimmery silk. The thin fabric was a near matching shade to the deeper hues of his new arms, almost invisible against the skin. John’s fingers were delicate, warm where the silk was cool. Sherlock stifled laughter as his diligent friend tied then untied a loose bow. A bit too feminine for his tastes, John shook his head and tried a simple slipknot. Tugging it loose when his flatmate flinched and squeaked in pain. “It’s okay, pinched the skin a bit,” Sherlock said, flexing the sore appendage.

“Sorry Sherlock,” John said, rubbing small circles with his thumb in apology. The taller man smiled, slipping another tentacle atop John’s hand and patting soft reassurance. “It’s quite alright. Do continue.” John carried on soothing the pinched flesh, thinking over the knots he could remember before settling on a simple double hitch. Secure but not binding.

After all eight ribbons were fastened, John stepped back to admire his handiwork. Each knot was fastened about midway on the limb. Far enough back to not interfere with activity but close enough to be detected in Sherlock’s peripheral vision. John smiled, sighing softly as he took it all in. The delicate strips of colorful fabric playing against Sherlock’s naked back and splayed appendages riled something deep within him. A dormant appetite rekindled. He shook his head, tossing the images aside and snatching an instruction sheet from the coffee table.

“Instructions. Brilliant mind like yours, should be quite simple,” John said, setting the page beside his flatmate’s music sheets.

“Quite. I don’t need this,” Sherlock tossed the sheet aside after a quick glance.

“I have a double shift at the clinic today but call me if you should need anything.”

“I’m not an infant, John.”

“Right. I know. I just… worry sometimes.” Sherlock turned, taking in the look in John’s eyes. _Genuine concern. Fear. He doesn’t want to leave me._

“I promise I will call should I or the flat be in immediate danger. Now go or you’ll be late.” Sherlock smiled reassuringly, nibbling his own toast while preparing John’s breakfast. John showered and dressed quickly, rushing out the door with a travel mug of coffee and mumbled thanks around his mouthful of toast and jam. Once the good doctor was waved off, Sherlock plucked up the code sheet from the floor and actually read it.

John had been alarmingly observant of his flatmate’s habits. Sorting each common task into one of eight categories. The blue ribbon was labeled **food** with a small handwritten note _Edible only, nothing tested on._ Under the examples box he had listed tea, takeaway, groceries. Next was the red ribbon labeled **hazards**. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and looked to the examples listed. _Poisons, toxins, anything your are experimenting with which could kill one or both of us._ He laughed. Below that was the yellow ribbon labeled **tools**. This one was meant for nontoxic experiment needs. Handling slides, telescopes and the like.

The list continued on, covering hygiene, electronics, clothing, violin and personal use. Sherlock stopped at the last label, holding up the eighth tentacle to inspect a fine pink ribbon affixed to its center. In the examples box John had written nothing. Scratch that, he had attempted to write something but scribbled over it. Tilting the paper and squinting he could just make out a few letters. _Sk_ _ on _ki__ Curious. Well, he was a detective and solving puzzles was his prime directive afterall, so Sherlock set to decoding the little box.

 _Personal Use_. A ridiculous label. They were his arms, everything he did with them would be personal. What would John consider personal? No, not personal. Private. He’d already listed hygiene for bathing and urination so that was out. Something else people do behind closed doors. Something the blushing blond would be embarrassed about and feel the need to erase-- _Oh_. Sherlock dropped the instruction sheet and swallowed the lump in his throat. _Skin on skin_. Had John been thinking about Sherlock doing that with his tentacles? Touching himself. Touching someone else.

The detective flushed, blinking in shock as he stretched to pick up the dropped sheet. Suddenly the reaching tentacle shuddered. A fantastic feeling rippling down the arm and straight to his core. He glanced down at the green ribbon where the feeling was shooting from. Perhaps it was too tight, but the sense coursing through him hadn’t been pain. Carefully, he reached out and nudged the knot with a finger. An intense pleasure rippled up the arm again and knocked him to his knees. Pulling the tentacle closer for inspection he saw the ribbon was now soaked through in a clear liquid. “That’s new…”

The rest of the day was spent poking and readjusting knots on his new arms. Each ribbon twisted and turned until all eight were centered along the right nerves. With the tiniest movement, Sherlock found he could send chills down his spine as each silk bundle pushed and pulled against his skin. His arms would let him know he was on the right track by self lubricating. Much like precome, the arms secreted a clear liquid when aroused. He was shivering, panting, completely distracted by the new discovery by the time his trousers and pants were finally ripped away by a pair of the more impatient tendrils.

Once freed, his cock was insistent. Hard against his belly and demanding attention after so many hours of slow torture. He had to deal with it and quickly. But the pink ribbon caught his attention and John’s labeling system came back to mind. _Personal use_. Sherlock grinned to himself and untied the ribbon. Teasing the cool silk across his cock, he slowly wrapped and tied a series of small knots along the base. “Patience,” he whispered aloud wiping sweat and matted hair from his brow.

Across London, John was leaving work exhausted. He boarded the tube, mulling over Sherlock as he had been all day and evening. Their relationship had improved but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Something more they both wanted but were too scared to initiate. He thought back to the massage. Sherlock’s rippling back muscles and those gorgeous arms writhing beneath his touch. They were rather impressive once he was allowed close enough to really look at them. He could feel the strength in the limbs. Not unlike the rest of Sherlock’s lithe frame they were slim but sturdy. He wondered if the tentacles could hold him down, maybe strip him like they did Sherlock after the case.

Blushing from his stray thoughts John looked up, searching for a distraction. As fate would have it, he found himself sat across from a large advertisement for London’s Sea Life Aquarium. Specifically, their new octopus exhibit with three bold neon lines screaming out TENTACLES! TENTACLES! TENTACLES! John laughed, quite out loud. Loud enough to get a few odd stares so the good doctor grinned in apology, cleared his throat and looked back to his shoes in shame. His heart was racing but he was too tired to handle everything wracking his mind. Slowly, with the aid of a long commute and the static noise of a crowded tube ride, he drifted off to sleep. And dreamt.

In his mind, John was warm. He felt safe. Surrounded. Opening his eyes he saw he was held down by Sherlock’s many arms. Naked and pinned to the detective’s bed. John usually hated being constricted. He liked to retain full control of his body during moments of intimacy. But something about the weight of Sherlock’s new limbs holding him down felt right. Comforting. He relaxed into the touch and lets the taller man take over, peppering him with soft kisses while the tentacles explored his body. Touching, prodding him everywhere. It felt like the first time. Tiny tongues licking him, puckering against his skin. It felt amazing. “Mmm god yes,” John moaned.

With a jolt, he was nudged awake. The gentleman next to him was red faced and frowning in secondhand embarrassment. John bolted up, rushing to exit the train and hide his half hard cock, pulling his coat tight around him and mumbling an apology. Once above ground, the cowering commuter stopped staring at his feet and looked up. He was two stops too early and must walk the rest of the way home. _The air will help me cool off_ , he reassured himself, thankful the hasty escape had killed his arousal.

Back at Baker Street, John had finally calmed his breathing and cleared his head. He unlocked the door and shaking the chill from his bones, removed his coat when a muffled thump sounded upstairs. The former soldier stilled, tilting his head towards the noise. When nothing followed he finished hanging up his outwear and climbed the steps. Just a few steps up he heard the thump again followed by what sounded like his name. Possibly. He paused again but heard nothing. Two more steps and he heard it again. His name. This time he was sure. He looked up to their flat about to call out for Sherlock when the sound came again, louder and more insistent. “John!” The doctor ran. Heart racing as he flung the door open and rushed inside.

Sherlock was sprawled naked in the middle of the sitting room. Covered in sweat and what looked to be lubrication. Sticky and shining all over as he writhed around, moaning behind closed eyes. His tentacles had all been re-tied, a series of new knots in each soaked ribbon. John instinctually sought each ribbon out, noting one arm was without. The pink ribbon. But before the shorter man could wonder where it had gone, Sherlock’s hand shifted and he saw it. John’s eyes went wide, sucking in a breath as Sherlock shouted his name one last time. The pink silk unfurled from his cock as the detective arched back and came across his chest and fingers. John’s name on repeat between moans and sighs.

Collapsing from exhaustion, Sherlock’s mind registered the creak of the front door as it bounced back from the wall where John had flung it open moments earlier. He whipped around to find his flatmate frozen in the doorway panting. His eyes were blown. Face flushed. Looking his doctor over Sherlock stopped at his trousers. Tented and bulging with desire. John wanted him. _Excellent_. He smiled.

“Oh hello, John. You're home early.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned REAL artist to draw him this time:   
> [ much sexier ](http://sweetlittlekitty.tumblr.com/post/101207678803/five-six-short-tentacle-arms-that-was-rather) ;)


	5. Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams do come true. Especially the naughty ones.

“Sherlock. I.. I..” John stammered, frozen in the door frame. He couldn’t think. Most of his blood having relocated to below the belt. He dropped his bag, closed his eyes, counted to ten and pinched the sensitive skin inside his wrist.

Slowly reopening his eyes, John was met with a brilliant smile and six feet of slick, naked detective walking towards him. “I’m still here,” Sherlock laughed, one tentacle closing and locking the door behind them as the others slowly coaxed his doctor inside and toward the sitting room.

“So you are,” John replied, returning his detective’s smile. The air between them surprisingly calm for the situation. “I heard shouting and.. I thought perhaps..” John’s eyes strayed down the matted dark hair trailing below Sherlock’s bellybutton to his softening cock, “you needed me?”

A single tentacle inched under the shorter man’s chin, lifting and holding his gaze as Sherlock shifted closer, mere inches between them. “Well, you’re not wrong, John. I _do_ need you.” John felt a knee insinuated between his legs, teasing the hardness now threatening to cut off circulation. “Or more accurately.. I want you.” The blond visibly swallowed. All useful vocabulary stricken from his mind. Glancing over his flatmate’s shoulder he watched tentacles untie and remove the knotted strips of fabric he’d placed on them that morning. He was fixated, trapped between a piercing gaze waiting for his reply and the naked body pressing against him. “Oh god..” was all his blood deprived brain could muster.

Sherlock dropped his hold on John’s chin, letting two tentacles work the shorter man’s thighs in a calming massage until the shorter frame slackened and blue eyes slipped back closed. John was still speechless. Emitting little more than moans and softs sighs as his legs were slowly prodded to warm putty. “The question remains, dear doctor. Is this just a physiological reaction to my nudity,” Sherlock asked, tentacles meeting in the middle to rub the outline of John’s cock, “or could it be you want me too?” The man addressed looked up, saw the sincerity in his flatmate’s face and found his voice.

“Sh-Sherlock, yes. For so long. Too long,” John willed his arms to move, reaching out to touch so much exposed flesh. Falling first to those sharp hips, his left thumb tracing the freckle he knew was there. He could feel the racing pulse beneath his hands. Sherlock’s hot breath tickling the short hairs of his fringe. John pulled the taller man back into his space. Leaning in for a kiss when he caught a flash of panic dance across steel eyes, stopping him short.

“Even like this?” Sherlock asked, moving the two tentacles working John’s legs to between their noses.

“Yes. Especially like this,” the shorter man answered. Letting his lips kiss the two tentacles between them. All tenderness and affection. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you and your new gifts,” John let his hands slowly trail up the detective’s back while eager lips continued inching closer to his. “All these magnificent arms. Touching me. Licking across my skin, between my fingers-- oh!” A few of the more adventurous limbs had wriggled beneath his hands, teasing and rubbing against the doctor’s splayed palms.

“Like that?” Sherlock asked, still cautious.

“Exactly like that, yes,” John insisted, closing the distance between them to claim Sherlock’s mouth. The tense genius stilled for but a moment before relaxing into the kiss. He let his hands touch John’s cheek and hold them steady a moment. Just long enough to remember the taste and feel of his lips before fingers tracing up a shaggy jawline wrapped around and lost themselves in short blond hairs.

John loved the feeling of Sherlock’s hands in his hair and let his own right hand stray from the knot of tentacles to run through a mess of dark curls. Licking the seam of a soft bottom lip and pulling a breathy sigh from his detective, he deepened the kiss and shifted, plundering every corner he could reach with his tongue. As much as he wanted to just kiss the man all evening, his cock had other plans. Rutting desperately into the leg pushed between him. John broke apart just long enough to pull Sherlock down to straddle his lap on the sofa.

Running his hands across bare shoulders and back to the mass of writhing arms, exploring his lover’s body as Sherlock took over excavating his mouth, John closed his eyes and lost himself in new tastes and touches. Each slick tendril tickled between his open palms for inspection. Rubbing his thumb over every ridge and dip of the new arms, John probed until he felt Sherlock shudder above him and they pulled apart for air. “God, you feel so warm.. Is this... lubricant?”

“Yes. Evidently I can self lubricate when aroused.”

John’s eyes grew wide, curiosity piqued. Sherlock found the picture of a debauched John, wide-eyed and puffy lipped, was doing wonders to rekindle blood flow back to his own cock. “Amazing,” the swollen mouthed doctor whispered, leaning in to his flatmate’s neck. Kissing and nipping his way up to his ear. “What else can they do?”

“I’ve.. oh.. I’ve found that despite appearances, my tentacles are quite.. strong,” Sherlock bragged a bit, squeezing John’s biceps with two arms and pushing him back into the sofa cushions. He found himself beaming with pride when the good doctor’s eyes went near black with lust. Tracing parted lips with a single finger as his tentacles tightened their grip.

“Dreams do come true...” John whispered to himself. But close proximity ensured Sherlock overheard the accidental confession. Two more tentacles found their way around the pinned doctor’s waist, untucking his jumper and shirt to tickle the soft flesh of his sides. “Have you been entertaining yourself with naughty fantasies about my arms, Doctor?” Sherlock grinned, eliciting raucous giggles from the blond held beneath him with merciless brushes along his belly and ribcage. “Tell me, John.. I believe you’ll find me most accommodating.”

“I.. hah.. stop!.. okay.. okay I’ll talk. I fell asleep on the tube and--” Sherlock sat back, eyes alight with excitement. “Oh! This happened tonight?” John looked away, color flooding his neck and cheeks.

“Yes. I dreamt we were naked and you were holding me down, with your arms. All around me.”

“Mmm lovely...where were we?” Sherlock rocked his hips in a most distracting manner for someone who was seeking information. But the friction between his naked half hard prick and John’s insistently tented trousers was delicious.

“In.. ah.. your bed.” John reached back for two handfuls of arse, squeezing and rocking into the man on his lap.

“Mmm and was I doing anything besides holding you down?” Two tentacles gripped the back of John’s head, tilting him forward as Sherlock licked and nipped up his exposed neck.

“Before that, you stripped me. Like the other night--”

“After the case,” Sherlock interrupted. In a blink he was standing. John groaning in protest as every sweet inch of warmth was taken from his space. Strong limbs wriggled beneath the doctor’s armpits, pulling him to stand as more slipped beneath his shirt and jumper and pulled them up. Tops discarded, another pair of tendrils made short work of his belt, button and zip. John yelped as he was shoved back into the sofa and divested of his pants and trousers in one swift pull leaving him completely exposed. He hadn’t even noticed his shoes and socks being removed. Sherlock remained standing as his arms set to folding John’s clothes in a neat pile behind him. His eyes were predatory, drinking in every inch of the shorter man. Lingering a moment on the knotted flesh of his left shoulder, licking puffy pink lips in anticipation.

“Oh John.. you are gorgeous,” Sherlock purred, hand stroking his now fully hard cock as he stared. “What happened next?”

John’s eyes were fixated on the pale hand squeezing and pulling. Sherlock hard and throbbing for him. _I did this to him? Impossible._ “You were.. um.. stroking me. And I could feel your arms gripping my legs, pulling me open but I…” He looked away. Newly flushed and shy.

“You woke up. Nasty business naughty dreams in public. I trust you didn’t drool on anyone or rut against some poor commuter’s leg?” Sherlock laughed, tentacles back to wrapping around his newly naked doctor. Two eager tendrils flicking and pinching each nipple.

“Sherlock!” John squirmed but he was held in place.

“I will just have to improvise the rest based on your responses and my desires. Right now, I’d really like to have my way with you, doctor..” John lost count of the arms. Overcome with new sensations as every inch of his skin was soon slick with the tentacle lubricant. Sherlock was back in his lap, mouthing over his scar. Licking and teasing. Worrying the edges with his teeth. “May I, John?”

“Oh god yes. Please. Anything, Sherlock.”

“Excellent.” The time for talking had passed. Sherlock pinned the doctor down, holding him in place as he slipped to his knees. Two arms wrapped and held John’s knees open, shifting him to the sofa edge. John flushed at his exposure, closing his eyes to dodge the scrutinizing gaze. But it offered little distraction as the freed arms set to prodding his intimate places. Tracing the crease of his arse, up his perenium, teasing the base of his cock with the faintest of brushes. John could almost hear Sherlock thinking. Reading him.

“How much can you feel?”

“Everything, John. I can feel every inch of you. It’s not unlike the sensation of a finger or a hand. Many supersensitive nerve endings. Regrettably, there is one thing they can’t do:”

“What’s that?”

“Taste you.”

Before John had time to open his eyes Sherlock swallowed him down and his head was falling back in a wide mouthed gasp. The wet heat of that mouth enveloped him and all he could do was take it. Pinned arms and legs, restricting him from even thrusting forward. John whimpered. Daring himself to peek at the sight and groaning when he found a shock of messy curls bobbing between his thighs. “Oh god Sherlock. Yes.”

The detective moaned a pleased hum and sucked harder. The wet sounds of his efforts dancing around the flat. John’s mouth fell open, gasping for air when a tentacle traced his lips. Not thinking, he licked the purple tendril. Sucked it into his mouth, mirroring the man below. Sherlock groaned loud, pausing a moment as the new feeling hit him. John could feel a dribble of precome from the taller man’s cock where he blindly rubbed against the doctor’s calf.

Muffled moans and sighs grew louder, the slick sounds of so much skin on skin between them.  John was close, turning his head to speak when the tendril between his lips slipped away. “Sherlock, I’m I--,” John’s eyes flew open. The spit slick limb from his lips had worked south and was now teasing, rubbing against his hole. He was shifted slightly, Sherlock stopping a moment to hold him as the tentacle slipped in. “Oh god..” It felt so good. Just a tiny tip tickling inside him. Like a tongue but so warm and with the promise of much more. “More..” John groaned. “Please, Sherlock.”

Obliged to drag more pleased noises from his doctor, Sherlock pulled back then pushed in further. John strained, desperate to get more of the tentacle inside. He’d stopped using coherent words. Just the fragmented syllables of please and god and yes.

Pulling out almost completely, Sherlock took John’s cock back into the warm heat of his mouth and pushed back inside until he brushed the small bundle of nerves and John yelped. Tears were prickling in blue eyes as John’s hips pulled and strained to rock between both sensations. Just a few more strokes against his prostate and he was coming. Choking gasps around his lover’s name.

Swiftly, Sherlock sat back on his heels. One tentacle wiping his come stained lips as his hands worked his cock. John caught his eye, licked his own lips and whispered, “Come for me Sherlock.” And he did. Thick spurts of come drenching John’s exposed belly and dripping down to his swollen hole.

“Oh god, John..” Sherlock collapsed to his knees, exhausted. His grip falling away so that John could move. He stayed there, face nuzzled into John’s side as the blond softly carded fingers through his curls. The silence stretching between them as racing hearts settled. Peaceful. John barely registered tentacles wiping them down with a damp flannel and tucking the tuckered lovers into the sofa under a blanket as he drifted to sleep. The pleasant warmth of Sherlock’s steady breathing teasing the back of his neck.


	6. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was bound to happen, eventually.

Sherlock roused from sleep just after midnight, all eight tentacles, two lanky legs and two long arms wrapped around something warm. Opening his eyes, the detective sucked in a startled gasp. _John. Naked John._ Before he could speak or move, his stomach rumbled between them stirring the sleepy doctor awake. “Mmnm.. Sherlock.. you hungry?” John squirmed, rolling over to face the man tangled around him. Nuzzling into the pale expanse of his lover’s chest, John couldn’t help giggling when his own stomach answered back. Before he could catch his breath to speak again, Sherlock’s tummy grumbled again setting off a fresh wave of laughter that shook them both from the sofa in a bundle of tangled limbs.

“Alright, alright, I’m awake. Anything in?” John stood, grabbing the blanket from the floor, wrapping it about his waist as he walked to the kitchen.

“Not much. Sorry,” John looked up surprised to hear a voice so close behind. Six feet of naked detective had joined in his search for sustenance and he found himself staring. The expanse of pale skin glowing under fluorescent lights as six of the eight limbs opened and closed cabinets while the other two rubbed the sleep from Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock managed to find half a loaf of bread, some strawberry jam and two whole biscuits he had hidden from John the last time his sweet tooth struck. “Will this do until morning?” he asked, setting the table as John filled the kettle for tea. “Perfect, thank you,” John smiled, grasping the nearest tentacle and giving a small squeeze of gratitude. Sherlock looked up, returned the gesture by squeezing back and excused himself to change into night clothes.

In the silence of his bedroom, Sherlock slipped into a clean pair of pants and sleep trousers while his mind poured over the day. He settled into a chair by the bureau and closed his eyes. Listening to the sounds of John in the kitchen. Had they acted too hastily? John didn’t seem disgusted or bothered by what had happened. He had covered his nudity quite quickly though. Was he ashamed now? Feeling regret? They would have to talk he supposed. _Tedious._

Sherlock shuffled back into the kitchen. He watched John sneak a side glance. The doctor’s eyes evidently enjoying the view of pale blue cotton low slung across bony hips. He sat at the table in silence watching John work. Not speaking until the blond almost tripped on his makeshift duvet toga. “Would you like me to fetch you something to sleep in from your room, John?”

John turned, staring in surprise. There was shock and hardness to his jaw. Something unsure in his face. _Fear?_ But just as soon as Sherlock saw it, the sharp lines were gone, softness melting into his features and rekindling bright blue eyes. “Sure, um yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”

Sherlock quickly ran upstairs to dig through John’s laundry. The doctor let his mind wander, fear creeping back in as he set the toast and tea. Sherlock was second guessing them. Had to be. Now that he could see him, deduce every scar exposed under the bright lights. Was he disgusted by the mangled man before him? Damaged by his past and sporting little dips of fat between fading muscle. John hated his body. Once shot he’d been bedridden for months of recovery and it threw off everything. His entire routine and core physique became a daily challenge. And now, with a boring desk job at the clinic, the only exercise he could grab was chasing down criminals and jumping across rooftops with Sherlock. John shuddered. He caught a glimpse of himself, distorted in the side of the kettle, but his scar was evident. Loud and pink and puffy. Screaming from his bare shoulder. He slammed the kettle down a bit too harshly.

Thankfully seated and stone faced when Sherlock returned with clothes. He shoved a plate of jammed toast towards the detective and excused himself to the bathroom to wash and change.

By the time John returned and served tea, the mood had shifted entirely. Too much time in their own heads. Both men ate in tense silence, interpreting every glance as scrutiny. Each resigned to sleep in his own room and accept the inevitable rejection morning would bring. That is, until Sherlock’s distraction affected his motor skills and the tentacle feeding him fumbled a bit of toast. John’s face contorted in a myriad of emotion as he fought against giggling. But Sherlock had turned so pink and flailing arms knocking over napkins and tea made such a mess of crumbs and jam that it set them both laughing to tears.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” Sherlock said as the laughter settled. He stood by the sink wringing out a jam covered flannel, “all that sexual tension between us.”

John hummed in agreement. Staring into his tea for the right words to say. “Are you… that is--” he was cut off by a riotous yawn.

“I’m not regretting anything,” Sherlock answered, crossing the room to prop one hip on the table beside the yawning blond. “But come, you are tired and need to rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The doctor stood then hesitated. Eyes glancing past the taller man’s shoulder to the open door of his bedroom. _Too forward, Watson. Get upstairs before you ruin this._ “Well, umm, goodnight,” John turned for the stairs to his room before turning back to lay a quick soft peck on Sherlock’s cheek. John was at the base of the stairs when he chanced a glance back. Sherlock hadn’t moved. Or blinked. Or breathed.

The detective had retreated into his mind again.  The burning sting of John's farewell kiss eating into his skin.  Too stunned to react as John sighed and headed for his room, leaving him feeling cold and empty. _Alone again._

The heavy footfalls stopped. Sherlock listened and waited. Had he spoken aloud? A soft voice reached his ears. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“May I, if it’s not too much, I don’t want to impose but I would really like to sleep next to you tonight.”

“Yes.” In a beat the good doctor was back downstairs. Letting himself be lead through the open door and tucked into silk sheets. In the darkness of Sherlock’s room they find a comfortable silence.

But Sherlock’s mind wouldn’t be shut down and he won’t stop fidgeting. “John, are you awake?”

“Just barely,” John answered around a yawn.

“Are you really sure about us, me, like this?”

“What?”

Sherlock’s answer was two tentacles wrapping about John’s waist and pulling him closer.

“Oh,” John hmms, wriggling into the warmth pressing into his back.  He thought a moment then asked, “Sherlock, would you stop wanting to shag me if I lost an arm?”

A hot puff of air stirred the shorter man’s hair as Sherlock laughed off the ridiculous idea. “John, you had a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in your left hand when we first met and I still found you quite shaggable. You’ve always... intrigued me. If you lost a limb, I would just conduct experiments on you until you complained and forced me to do them in secret. Or while you were sleeping.”

“Git,” it was John’s turn to laugh, reaching back to swat Sherlock’s hip. “But do you see? Why would I love you any less just because you have more arms-- hang on! You wanted me since Bart’s?”

Sherlock flushed and rolled away from him in a huff. “Must get rest. Doctor’s orders. We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight, John.”

John laughed and rolled into Sherlock’s back, nuzzling and kissing his shoulder blades at the base of each tentacle until his petulant lover grew pliant. A deep hum rumbling between them. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock listened to the soft rise of John’s chest as the doctor slowly fell into a deep peaceful sleep. Tentacles slipping out to wrap around the shorter man and hold him closer still. Snuggled in tight he closed his eyes and let the day playback through his mind. The touch and feel of the man behind him.  Words exchanged.  He was just on the edge of sleep when John’s last words finally registered and his eyes flew open. Heart racing. _I love you_ echoing in his head. He doesn’t sleep.

In the morning John woke up alone to cold tea and a note.

**Gone for a walk. Back for lunch. SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, I did it again. This chapter got a bit long and was subsequently split apart.


	7. Unravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never meant to write all this angst. I REALLY DIDN'T!
> 
> The boys continue to overthink their relationship and they do a bit of shopping.

By the time Sherlock returned from the park, his mood had taken a nosedive into sheer negativity. What started as a simple fear of rejection was now tainted with longing. He missed John. Really missed him. And with that longing came the carnal knowledge of all he stood to lose once rejection did come. He paused inside the front door, listening for sounds upstairs. A muffled TV assured him John was home. Sherlock removed his coat and headed up, tossing about two options in his mind and settling on the selfish choice. He would simply put on a happy face and enjoy the time John allowed them to have together before the inevitable sexuality crisis reminded the blond that he wanted breasts and a family without tentacles.

Upstairs John was stretched out on the sofa napping. His well worn _Doctor Who_ DVD playing through the menu screen, the incessant dooweeoo a lullaby. Sherlock shook his head and smiled. How many times had he come home late to this scene, at least a few dozen. But only now did it hit him how relaxed John was in the confines of their flat.

Sherlock removed his suit jacket and untucked the tails of his shirt for the tentacles to squirm free. He looked down at his napping flatmate, thinking back to that first evening, how John had already claimed a pillow and chair for his own. Chided Sherlock on his non-existant housekeeping skills. There was no adjustment period with John. Baker Street simply did not exist pre-John. Just Mrs. Hudson and dull rooms to store his things. But when the good doctor moved in, the flat became a home. He was essential as the walls themselves. More even. In the few months when John was gone, his absence was deafening. Sherlock could barely stand to exist in that horrible silence. With Mrs. Hudson’s fidgety habit of cleaning when she’s upset, the flat was slowly erased of John’s memory. His dust lines, his fingerprints, even his smells. When the last trace of his cologne and soaps had gone, Sherlock found himself escaping, sleeping elsewhere as often as possible. He shook his head back to the present, darker memories sifting back to the locked vault of his mind where he’d buried them.

Remote in hand, Sherlock clicked the TV off and settled on the floor next to John. Two tentacles squirmed out from beneath his shirt and gently stroked John’s hair from his forehead. Sherlock stared at him, fascinated by how his pale lashes appeared transparent in the sunlight. The sleeping man’s hand twitched, reaching up to swat tickling limbs from his face. His nose twitched, fighting a sneeze as he broke into a slow full faced yawn. Blinking through the noon glow across his cheek John mumbled, “Sherlock… mhh.. what time is it?”

“Just ten past noon, John. You can have a lie in if you like, I’m not--”

“No, no. I’m up. And you’re eating.” John set his sternest no arguments expression but the effect was thirty percent less effective through sleep crusted eyes and drool damp lips. Sherlock smiled and bowed his head in silent concession nonetheless. Making John happy was more important than pointing out the flaws in his post nap debating techniques. And when did that happen? Putting John’s smile above his own ego. “As you wish, John.”

“Bloody right. You haven’t eaten in days, not a proper meal at least,” John stretched out aching joints and Sherlock drank in the sight of little patches of tummy every time his shirt rucked up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry. Meant to nip down to Tesco. But I suppose we could grab something while we’re out shopping.”

“Shopping?” Sherlock arched a brow in curiosity.

“Shopping,” John’s face lit up with a mischievous grin and he winked. That little devilish elf winked his smarmy arse off and nipped off upstairs to change without one word of explanation. And damn if that didn’t get Sherlock’s heart stuttering. _Shopping. Dull. Secret shopping with John. Not dull._  
_____

Lunch was Chinese in Soho at Sherlock’s suggestion, of course. No bickering, just peaceful smiles and tangled knees beneath the table. John seemed pleased to see Sherlock eat an entire entree and pick at a salad so he had no reason to complain. Granted the brunet spent most of their meal staring out the window and mentally running over a map of vendors in the area. But that was pretty much the norm for them, which was all John really wanted. The more Sherlock acted like his regular self, the more confident John grew. Nothing had changed. They could do this. Be friends and lovers. Suddenly, Sherlock stiffened in his seat, pulling his coat tighter about his shoulders.

“Sher--”

“I’m fine. It’s my tent-- ah. They just.. gah. hee.. stop it!” Sherlock squirmed in his seat. “ah.. heh.. aaah.. excuse me.” He bolted for the loo.

John didn’t know how to respond. Sherlock wasn’t injured or in danger. He even sounded like he’d been laughing. The army doctor wavered in his seat, not wanting to look suspicious. Two men sneaking in the back together. But he also hated the idea of abandoning his flatmate. Thankfully, emotional crisis was averted when Sherlock returned moments later, stern faced and glowering. His eyes red and watery.

“Everything, um, sorted?”

“Hmm? Yes.” Sherlock picked up his napkin and wiped the tears from his eyes then shot a pissy glare, not at John, but over his shoulder. “The arms, they’ve been trapped beneath my coat most of the morning. Apparently two of them are particularly petulant and conspired to tickling me in revenge.”

John tried then failed to hide his laughter. The idea that Sherlock’s limbs were sentient and plotting revenge beneath his Belstaff was too much. He giggled until the brunet’s frown turned his direction, then pulled in enough air to ask, “I thought you could control them.”

“I can, usually. However my subconscious takes over when I am… otherwise distracted.”

“Oh,” John looked down at the table in apology. He’d been so absorbed in his own excitement he hadn’t stopped to think too long about what Sherlock was going through. “God, I’m an idiot. Rushed us out of the flat before we could really talk about... Look, Sherlock, we can do this another day if--”

“John,” Sherlock reached across the table to take John’s hand and hit him with a brilliant, heart stopping smile. “It’s fine. We can talk back home. I was distracted by your little mystery shopping trip.”

“Okay but no deducing the surprise away. I’ll have none of your Christmas gift xray vision today,” John mock pouted, but entwined their fingers together and pulled the taller man closer for a quick kiss. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded emphatically, unable to hide the smile and flush on his face when he pulled back from the kiss. “Lead the way, Doctor,” Sherlock teased. A squirming tickle up his spine told the detective it would be beneficial for everyone if they returned to the flat soon.

As it worked out, Sherlock’s favorite restaurant was just one block from their destination. A sex shop on the corner of Brewer Street. Forgettable little blue building simply labeled _Private Entertainment_. John held the door open and waggled his eyebrows, waiting for Sherlock to snipe him with a sarcastic remark, but the brunet didn’t comment. Just swooped past, coat flapping behind him as he ducked inside.

John followed behind shortly, leaning in close to lower his voice and whisper an explanation. “After last night’s um, activities.. I started thinking about certain things I enjoy and would like to share with you, if you are interested. I have some idea you would be amicable if what I saw when I came home last night was any clue, but I want you to be honest with me if anything is out or off limits.”

“Aren’t I always?” Sherlock answered with his trademark smartass grin. And he was right. If John felt the need to be reserved about anything going forward in their relationship, it was not trust. Sherlock’s unfiltered, unapologetic honesty had been in full force since the fall. Unless one counted his previously unrequited feelings. And John wasn’t going to count something he was guilty of as well.

A young man emerged from the back of the shop carrying boxes. Blond, barely eighteen and glowing with a fresh tanning bed tan. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

John stepped forward to position himself between Sherlock and the sales clerk before answering, “Multi Filament Polypropylene, solid braid. Your website says this location carries it.”

“Oooh,” the clerk’s demeanor shifted. “Daddy knows what he likes. Right away, sir.” After a mock salute, he ran to the back room.

Behind him, John heard a startled gasp.

“Objections?” he asked cautiously. But Sherlock’s face already wore his answer. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, poorly hidden smirk. “It’s just with the ribbons yesterday and the new knots, I assumed… like I said if you’re not into it, if you have concerns--”

“None whatsoever,” the detective finally replied. He was immediately thankful for the long coat. tentacles and cock both excited at the scenes flooding his imagination. Bondage. Honestly? His naughty little doctor was hiding this from him, all these years. He found himself simultaneously miffed and turned on. The sales clerk returned and Sherlock had to break the tension, excusing himself from the front counter to look at a wall display of… oh great, cock rings. Yeah that would help.

John sent the clerk to the back room for another errand then joined Sherlock’s side, whispering. “Alright?”

“Hmm? Yes, fine. I’m just… Are you sure about this? I mean with me. Like I am.”

John laughed, sneaking in a kiss on the cheek before taking Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock, we discussed this. You are still you. Tentacles and all. I’ll just need a few extra skeins of rope. You know, for those petulant limbs plotting behind your back.” And he winked. Throwing out the same smile he’d given Sherlock that very first night at Angelo’s. Sherlock let himself relax. Maybe John had meant it. Things hadn’t changed for either of them. Then the boy was back and he had to pay attention as John discussed options.

“What do you think, hmm? Red or blue,” John asked, holding each sample braid against Sherlock’s hand, his face wistful, remembering something happy but long forgotten. The detective looked down, images of himself restrained and begging replayed behind his eyes. If he was honest he’d imaged it a few times, complete with proper bindings, but he’d never imagined John would be agreeable. In his mind the rope had always been.. “Blue,” they both said at once. John looked up and the air between them grew heated. Confessions laid bare.

The clerk, _oh he had a name afterall, what had John called him? Jake? Jeremy?_ The boy was sent to the back for more packages and a few additional items. Walking to the front checkout, John explained the binding properties in further detail. “Here,” he said, handing the sample length over. “I did some research while you were out on your walk. This style is soft to the touch, lies flat on the skin for reduced chafing and, as a bonus, it’s waterproof which is good for your um.. lubey arms.” Sherlock found himself lost in John’s smile as he absently stroked the length of rope in his palm. Giggling with him until one of his so-called lubey limbs wriggled up the sleeve and felt the rope as well. It was a rather silky braid.

“Ahem, yes, these are nice, much softer than I expected, John.” Sherlock flustered, handing the rope back. Pulling his coat up closer to hide his face when the sales clerk returned with their order and began to ring up the sale. He stepped aside towards the door, waiting. Willing his more disobedient tentacles to remain still and behave just a moment longer.

“Ready to go, love?” John appeared behind him holding up the bags and grinning. That perfect toothy overjoyed grin he gets when he tells Sherlock he’s brilliant. But this time, it was so much worse. And Sherlock froze. Stunned in silence. In a panic he dashed for the door and desperately hailed a cab, any cab to get him as far away from this moment.

But of course John was on his heels. Rubbing the back of his neck and looking down at his feet and stammering out an apology. “Oh, right. Sorry. No pet names then? I should have asked--”

“It’s not that John. Forget it. Let’s go home.”

The cab ride home was tense and silent. John’s hand clenching and unclenching on a bouncing knee. Their bags tossed on the floor with little care. Sherlock could nearly hear the doctor berating himself. His entire posture full of self loathing and disgust. John stared out the window, unable to chance even a side glance at his partner lest he break out tears or fists. The only thing keeping Sherlock on his side of the cab was his own misgivings. A constant string of _stupid stupid stupid_ playing through his mind.

Back at the flat they settled into the daily routine without a word. Jackets and coats removed. Kettle boiling. John cleared his throat, managed “Sher--” before he was cut off by a slamming door. Sherlock threw himself face down across his bed. Let his twitchy arms undress him while he sulked. He listened to John outside. Pacing the hall in indecision. Raising a hand to knock then backing off. Then John was in the restroom, shower running and Sherlock finally let himself cry. “He doesn’t love you. He’s confused,” he whispered to himself between choked sobs. Tentacles attempting to soothe him with tender scalp massage and hugs.

In the shower, John was wrecked. Thankful for the hot spray hiding his face. He looked down at himself. Knotted scars, wobbly flesh and fading muscle. He was gross. Damaged. What was he thinking. Loving someone so young and beautiful. _Told you not to come on too strong. Warned you to back off._ He told himself. He closed his eyes and let the emptiness fill him. Swallowed up by a slideshow of every bad decision he’d ever made. Every moment he’d chance to lay his heart bare only to have it stomped and beaten. And he cried for the loss. For every time he never let himself cry before.

Sherlock stilled. He’d heard a soft noise over his self loathing internal tirade. Over the muffled sounds of water and splashing. He’d heard it. A whimper. _John_.

In a beat he opened the adjoining glass door. “John?”

“Jesus, Sherlock! What are you doing in here?” John swallowed his shock and quickly pulled a towel behind the curtain to wipe his eyes.

“I wanted to apologize. About earlier, John.” Sherlock moved to stand just behind the curtain, willing to give John his privacy with that thin veil. “I just, last night you.. and then today. Do you really love me?” He waited. Heard John’s gasp. Spluttered choking. _Probably swallowed water. Idiot._

Behind the shower curtain John slumped into the wall, white as a sheet. The previous night’s conversation replayed for him and his eyes went wide with realization. “Oh god, shit. Sherlock, I didn’t realize I’d even..” _Here it comes_ , Sherlock thought. _Goodbye John. I’ll go pack your things so you can move out._ But John pulled the curtain aside, found his panicked flatmate and pulled him in for a kiss. Water splashing about the linoleum. And Sherlock squirming from his damp grip in surprise when John pulled back to breathe. Sherlock saw his eyes, still red but the tears brewing in them now were happy. “Yes, of course. Of course I love you.”

Sherlock stared, speechless. Searching every inch of John’s body language for some hint of betrayal. Finding none, he spoke. “So, what you’re saying is... In fact, you’re not intending to grow sick of me and run off for someone with less arms and perhaps female?”

“Why on earth would I ever leave you when you are exactly who I’ve been looking for?” John pulled Sherlock closer, suddenly growing aware of just how naked they both were when he felt the taller man shaking. “Come here, get in here before you freeze.” Sherlock let himself be led into the shower. A tentacle reaching behind him to secure the curtain back in place. Another turning the tap hotter. Eyes at his feet in shame and apology, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice John’s growing arousal. His own cock excited by the sight.

“Oh, John…” Looking up the brunet found a flushed face and piercing gaze holding him in such regard and adoration there was no room left for worrying. John wanted him. And on top of that, he loved him. But something flashed for a brief second while he stared and Sherlock caught it. Fear. John was still scared, unsure if Sherlock wanted him back. And he couldn’t bear to see that.

His tentacles throbbed and grew slick with excitement, pulling the shorter man into him. Their hips and mouths locking together. Cocks rubbing, brushing against one another as the kiss deepened. Sherlock’s heart rang in his ears, saying with touches and tongue every word he couldn’t find in the limited vocabulary of his mind. John mumbling only one word, one name rolling through his thoughts. Sherlock slipped a tentacle between them to grip both cocks. Stroking them both together while his lips pulled back to nip at John’s ear, whispering to him. “God, yes, come for me John. You’re so gorgeous.” The blond stiffened and cried out, pulling Sherlock’s own orgasm with him. They collapsed into one another, the weight of the day washing down the drain.

 

 


	8. Tie the Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax (har har) you've been waiting for. Tentaclelock bondage is a go.

“Alright, out of the shower. Get dressed,” John said, turning the tap and shoving his gangly lover out into the damp air. “You and I need to have a proper chat and I can’t do that with you all…” he gestured up and down Sherlock’s exposed body.

“Oh, is that so?” Sherlock teased, grabbing a fluffy towel to attack his curls and waggle his hips teasingly. He shook with laughter, the tentacles reaching for his housecoat.

“Just get dressed,” John answered around a smile, turning to hide his rising blush. Before he could get his own housecoat on there was a small pinch to his bum sending the shorter man leaping and yelping in fright. Spinning back around he shot a challenging glare. “Sherlock!”

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock whinged around a pout, eyebrows and shoulders raised in mock apology, eight violet arms shadowing the shrug behind him. John had to leave the bathroom before a new fit of giggles incapacitated him.

Upstairs, John tossed on a vest and boxers. His mind was a mess. A tangle of conversational snippets and emotions, a lifetime of plotted out love confessions. Every word he’d needed to say but never could. Tonight he would bring everything to a head if he could just get Sherlock to shut up and sit still long enough. He nodded once to himself in the mirror above his bureau. _You can do this_.

Back down in the sitting room, Sherlock crouched topless, prodding flames from the fireplace. Thin cotton trousers barely held up by one jutting hipbone. He hadn’t bothered with pants. John paused in the doorway, a bit distracted by so much exposed skin shining in the soft glow of the fire. “Sherlock,” he managed, dragging himself to his chair and pointedly averting his gaze to get his opener out. “I would like to speak first if you could just listen. Then I will do the same for you, yeah?”

Sherlock looked up, seeing the serious lines pull between John’s pleading eyes and nodded. He let his tentacles set the screen and stoke the logs as he settled into his chair and waited for John to begin.

“We’ve talked little, since the,” John paused to clear his throat and resteel his resolve, “Since your death.” Sherlock looked down, awash with renewed shame and guilt. “I lost you once, Sherlock. For two years. Then you just... It was too much and I,” John stared at the disheveled head of curls, waiting for Sherlock to look back up before continuing. His voice falling to a hushed whisper. Terrified but determined. “Look, I knew I loved you. I did. But the timing was always against us, you know?” Sherlock nodded, fighting back tears. Had John really loved him that long? “And then after.. months of silence after she was dealt with. I was so mad at you. I was angry with you and angry with your brother. You lied to me. Again, Sherlock. But mostly, I was so angry with myself. I’d almost lost you again and I hadn’t even told you how I--” John choked and lost his voice in a sob. Every word was a struggle as each jostled to the surface. “Even after I moved back here, everything was wrong between us. Sure, we mended the friendship, that much was always there. But I wanted so many times to tell you how precious you are to me, Sherlock. God, you.. you get this look sometimes... catch the light in your eyes after a great case and your face pulls into so many wild lines when you smile. I almost told you so many times. But every moment was wrong. Or interrupted.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, wiping away an endless trickle of tears that had broken free of their own volition. His face flushed, hiding behind his hands. Tentacles knotted and wringing in distress behind him.

“Wait, just, please wait.” John tried to smile, but seeing the taller man so affected was pulling him apart. He spoke quicker before all resolve vanished. “Last month. Running up here to find you on the floor… and covered in blood. I just. I knew then. I knew I couldn’t lose you and never tell you, Sherlock. Not again. Please look at me.”

Sherlock dropped his hands and found seeking eyes. Pleading, begging, hopeful eyes. He’d never cried this much in his life. Not since Redbeard or Grandmere. But John wasn’t judging him or calling him weak. John was just waiting, a soft smile pulling his cheeks. Lilac limbs sought out Sherlock’s discarded housecoat and dabbed the detective’s face. When he stopped sniffling and the last tentacle swept a dry sleeve across his cheeks, John spoke again. “Sherlock, I love you. I have loved you for a very long time. And if you’ll have me, I am yours.” John sucked in a gasp for air, having rushed through the final declaration.

“John…” Sherlock felt like he would burst into flame at any moment. His insides were unbearably warm and no doubt eating him from within. As his mind shortwired, blinking and blinking again, his tentacles reached for John. Stroking the shorter man’s knees in a desperate bid for contact. Gripping his hand. Patient John. Calm, solid John, waited and stroked the tentacles with his fingers, tracing the soft flesh under his thumbs. Grateful that Sherlock’s subconscious had heard and accepted him even if the rest of him was still processing.

“I..” Sherlock snapped his jaw shut. Shook his head and tried again. “I do want you. Have wanted you for a very long time. From the very beginning I knew there was a physical attraction, John. But I didn’t know you, how you would receive me and all previous evidence pointed to rejection.” John opened his mouth to interrupt, to shout out just how very receptive he was that first night, but thought better of it and let Sherlock continue. “Then you shot the cabbie, John… and you… looking across the parking lot that evening. Something fell into place. I knew I need you, beside me, in any capacity you would have me.” Sherlock paused, searching John’s face for something.. understanding perhaps. Agreement.

“You know the rest, have said as much. Circumstance and bad timing stood between us these years. My feelings never dulled but they were, for preservation’s sake-- for the work-- packed away and disregarded under the assumption you did not and never would return them.”

“And now?” John asked softly, squeezing the tentacle working between his left hand.

“And now... I am still coming to terms with the truth. Still, accepting that this is not some fevered dream, or that perhaps I’ve died in the explosion and my mind has conjured the past month in the wake of my last seconds in order to give myself a moment of self deluded joy.”

John huffed a small laugh and plucked the tentacle still stroking his knee, giving it a pinch. Sherlock yelped and pulled the arm from his grasp, glaring daggers. “What on earth was that for?”

“You’re not dreaming,” John grinned, slipping to the floor to settle between Sherlock’s open knees. “Nor hallucinating nor stuck in your mind palace while your body withers away in a coma somewhere. So, feelings and reality sorted, yeah? We are on the same page?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Fantastic,” John let his head settle onto Sherlock’s left knee, hands idly stroking the taller man’s calf as all the air slowly leaked from him like a deflating balloon. He felt simultaneously empty and full. Warm but shivering when his next line of questioning fought it’s way past his lips on a whisper. “And the physical…um... what I saw when I returned to the flat last night?”

“Ah,” Sherlock left his tentacles to card through John’s hair as his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression softening as the memories wormed back to the forefront. “When I had you examine my back the first morning, after the accident. What I experienced when you found the nodules beneath my scapula was not a panic attack, John.” Sherlock shifted, catching John’s eye. The doctor’s face was open and patient, so unabashedly loving that Sherlock had to turn away or lose his nerve. “I was experiencing… arousal.”

“Oh,” John straightened, eyes gone wide. Suddenly very aware of how close his face was to certain anatomy.

“Yes, very much ‘oh’,” Sherlock stroked a tentacle softly down John’s cheek. Across his lips. Shivering when they kissed and sucked at the soft flesh. “I haven’t experienced that level of physical reaction in my life. I’m not celibate, but my experience with others has been... limited.”

“Oh,” John said again, softer, more to himself. Voice riddled in disappointment and jealousy. “I guess I should have expected, I mean, after Irene…”

“What?” Sherlock looked down, perplexed. The stroking limb slipped beneath John’s chin, forcing him to look up. “John, I haven’t been sexually attracted to anyone since uni and I can assure you it has never been for a woman. Not even The Woman.”

“But you were so.. and she.. never?”

“Never. You woke something in me that has been dormant quite a long while. Despite the average person’s ability to simply bed any imbecile who will tolerate them for an evening, my disdain for average pundits extends to physical attraction.”

“Thanks.. I think.” John settled closer, wrapping his hands around the taller man’s waist and snuffling into his exposed belly. A couple more tentacles began idly stroking his back, soothing them both. A stretch of silence passing between them where nothing but soft breaths and crackling logs could be heard in the flat.

Sherlock continued. “I discovered that first morning how.. sensitive my new arms were. I have since conducted a few experiments but nothing overtly sexual, nothing to stimulate the self lubrication. Not until yesterday.” Sherlock’s cock twitched at the sensory memory. John’s chin was dangerously close to the minute movement and he swallowed down a moan when realization hit him. “I was reaching for something and one of the knots you secured rubbed over a pulse point and.. God, John it felt so good. The silky little knots providing friction, lighting up my nerves and I had seven more arms to try it out on! I spent the day tying and adjusting knots. Trying to rub against them all until I was sticky and hard and mmff--”

John reared up and silenced the man with a kiss. Too turned on to hear any more. “Sherlock, you bloody genius, only you would stumble accidentally across something like that.”

“What?”

“Kinbaku, Shinbari or, in simple English, rope bondage. I haven’t done much myself, other than with my self,” John flushed at his admission, but excitement was clear in his face. Sherlock couldn’t help but mirror the expression. “I have learned quite a few knotting techniques. I can teach you, if you like,” John’s grin threatened to break his face as he pulled himself back to sit across the taller man’s lap. Arms cradling Sherlock about the neck.

“I would like that very much,” Sherlock decided. John’s grip tightened and they were joined once more in a ferocious kiss, wet and greedy and overflowing with eagerness. John’s breath was hot and sticky as he pulled back for air. “We’ll have to do this properly then, safe words and quick release--”

“Dull,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He trusted John implicitly, there would be no reason to hold back with him in anything.

“Your safety is not dull, Sherlock. It’s my priority.”

The brunet arched an eyebrow, hands slipping to John’s waist. “Oh?”

“Yes. I want this, with you. But we need to be honest and safe, above all else. Then, I am open to anything you want from me.”

“Everything John, please.” Sherlock was back to kissing, tentacles wriggling beneath John’s vest until it was pulled up and over his head. “Enough talking, Doctor,” Sherlock sat back panting, “show me.” Two tentacles dropped shopping bags between them. John looked up to find dark eyes peering at him in excitement. The look Sherlock usually reserved for locked room murders.

“Yeah, okay. Bedroom then,” John snatched the bags and stood. Jaw dropping as Sherlock stripped of his sleep trousers and sauntered down the hall without a word. His pale arse and long gorgeous legs a siren call pulling the blond to join him.

“Oh god,” John groaned, dragging a hand across his face before following. Sherlock lie facedown in the center of the bed, his tentacles smoothing the duvet and tossing pillows aside.

“Face me, Sherlock, and sit up,” John instructed, closing the door behind him. His boxers tented but he kept them, the need for a small restraint to hold his focus on Sherlock. “First, I think we should start with what you know.”

Sherlock rolled over, sitting up and crossing his legs. “John I told you already I haven’t--”

“I mean your arms, Sherlock,” John corrected, sitting across from the taller man and pulling out a skein of rope from the bag. He set the blue coil in his lap and reached out, stroking slowly down the nearest purple limb. “Teach me what you’ve learned.”

Sherlock placed his hand over John’s, index finger to index finger, and guided the surgeon’s calloused digit down his tentacle. Midway he stopped and pressed gently, a deep moan ripping through him. “There.” Beneath his finger John could feel a small slit in the skin, weeping now with lubricant. He brought his lips to the spot, sliding their fingers aside and kissing softly. Sherlock visibly shivered, eyes closed as his neck bobbed in a stiff swallow. “Th-There are three spots on each arm,” he guided their hands to the next a couple inches down, his tentacle growing visibly wet and swelling with arousal. John followed their joined hands with his lips, paying each erogenous zone individual reverence.

“Three on each arm?” he asked, bringing his lips to Sherlock’s guiding hand and pulling their joined fingers with him as he sat back.

“Y-Yes,” Sherlock stammered out. His cock was red and growing purple by the minute. Already too turned on to focus on much more than every point of contact between them.

“Okay, okay love,” John whispered, running calming hands up Sherlock’s thighs. Across his hips. Teasing a thumb across his prick just to hear that little hiss, a sweet intake of breath. “Lie back, on your front. I’ll do the arms first. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, rolling over. Struck mute in his lust. Shaking with anticipation as he felt the weight shift from the bed. Listened to the rustling of plastic, the rip of packaging, the snip of shears. Then John was back, straddling his legs, sat just below his exposed arse. Two tentacles reached back desperate for contact. Stroking John’s hips, tracing the band of his boxers, nudging him forward until the heat of his cock was nestled between pale cheeks and the blond groaned in pleasure and protest. “Oh god, Sherlock, you and your bloody arms. Leave off before I come in my pants.”

John held up the first length of rope, measuring it against Sherlock’s lower right tentacle. “Did you use any particular knot in the ribbons or...” he asked the man beneath him.

“Hmm? No John, just simple knots. I defer to your expertise,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to snuffle down into the duvet as tentacles set about fetching the pillows from the floor.

“I like the sound of that,” John puffed up at the praise. “I think a simple series of blood knots will do. Smooth surface area for, erm, more comfortable rubbing.”

“Oh? Is that the knot you used on your cock?” Sherlock sighed and slipped a pillow beneath his head, imagining young Corporal John properly trussed up, enjoying a private wank.

“Yeah, yeah it feels nice,” John answered. His eyes dark and focused as he slipped the first series of knots into alignment and tugged the rope ends taut. Sherlock responded immediately, tentacle engorged and glistening as he choked back a string of gutteral moans.

“Yeah,” John said simply, pausing a moment to enjoy the throb of Sherlock’s heart beat in the bound limb. Methodically, he moved to each arm in turn until Sherlock’s back was a beautiful work of woven art. Eight knotted tentacles, interlaced in a spider’s web of twitching wet ecstasy. Sherlock moaning low and long into his drool soaked pillow. “God, Sherlock, you’re so beautiful,” John stared, eyes roaming the lines of nylon fading between pastel blues and purples. Sherlock answered with a groan that sounded almost like the doctor’s name but was swallowed by layers of cotton and down.

“Okay, love, last bit here then you can roll over,” _and let me have at that cock_ , John added mentally. “Cross your arms behind your back, just above your arse, yeah, right there. Hold onto each opposite wrist. Good, very good.” Sherlock’s wrists were bound in a simple loop of rope, secured to the center safety release on his tentacles. Attached so that every tug of Sherlock’s hands would further increase friction along all eight writhing limbs. Instinctively, Sherlock tested his restraints and let out a deep, low whine when twenty four little knots found their mark and sent a wave of intoxication crashing over him.

“Easy now, love. Don’t get any ideas about coming before I let you,” John chided with a soft swat to the perky arse between his thighs. Sherlock stilled. “Okay, sit up, here on your knees like, yeah. Open up for me,” Sherlock was gently rolled over and positioned kneeling before John. Eyes wet with determination, struggling to let go completely. John pulled two new lengths of rope from behind him and worked each around Sherlock’s calves and thighs, binding the pale flesh to hold his lover open for him. His fingers twitching as Sherlock’s cock grew impossibly harder. Brushing a wet stripe across the man’s belly. “Good, you’re doing so good, love. How do you feel?”

“John, it’s so much. Too much--” Sherlock blinked, a single tear falling down from perfect lashes and it pulled something in John. His smile gone.

“Oh no, does it hurt?” John asked, face suddenly darkening in concern. He reached out for the safety line, ready to cut his lover loose.

“No!” Sherlock corrected with a shout, twisting back and away from John’s reach. Struggling against the sensations coursing through him to find his voice and lock a determined gaze on the man before him. “It’s overwhelming but I, I quite like it. Please, continue.”

“Okay, but you promised to tell me if--”

“I know John, I promise,” Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and reopened them. Waiting.

“Okay,” John whispered, pulling the taller man back to him for a kiss. A promise given and accepted. Sitting back he pulled the last length of rope between them and began the final series of knotwork. This time running up the underside of Sherlock’s impossibly hard cock. Five blood knots were looped down from the frenulum, meeting at the base of his bollocks in a true lover’s knot, two wide loops left hanging on either side like a bow. John sat back and fully admired his work before he gently eased Sherlock back onto the nest of pillows.

Sherlock shook and moaned as each rope was jostled. Tiny pressure points shooting euphoria through his entire frame with every shift. Looking up through wet eyes he watched John reach for a small bottle of lube and place it beside his hip before kissing down his chest. Teasing thumbs over Sherlock’s hard nipples. “Oh,” Sherlock squeaked as John pinched and tugged each nib. His mouth blowing heated pants across Sherlock’s bound thigh. Licking at the taut ropes. Nibbling the exposed flesh between.

Sherlock gasped, eyes squeezing shut to cut off at least one of his senses as John slipped further down, teasing lips gingerly down his bound cock, down, down past his bollocks, strong hands gripping each thigh just above the rope line to lift and position him. Exposed, shivering with anticipation. Suddenly a wet tongue was on him, prodding and licking into the furled knot of his opening.

“Gah! John,” Sherlock attempted to jerk back but was held in place by a firm grip. His trapped hands only succeeded in pulling needy whines from his throat as every tentacle was jerked and rubbed slick with his movement. Whimpering he froze and forced himself to relax, open up. His mind blanked for a long while as John worked into him with that wicked tongue. Coming back to himself only when John sat back, wiping his wet grin. The pop of a lube cap opening a gunshot in the stillness of the room.

Sherlock cracked his eyes open to watch as John squeezed a sizeable portion of lubricant into his palm, the patient doctor massaging it between his fingers to warm the liquid up. Looking past his own weeping cock he found John’s tented blue boxers, wet with precome. Struggling to speak around a gasp as John worked his first finger in, Sherlock laughed and pulled the most ineffective pout, “John, you’re not even naked.”

“Not a problem,” John answered with a shrug and a smile, slipping a third finger inside and Sherlock didn’t have time to wonder when the second one had breached him before John crooked his hand just right and brushed up against his prostate.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, arching his back which in turn pulled his wrists which in their turn tugged the eight lines secured to his tentacles and the genius collapsed back to the mattress a shivering mess. Head in a fog he begged. “Please,” he whispered, though Sherlock no longer knew exactly what he wanted only that he wanted.

“I know,” John answered, and he did. Slipping his cock free through the unbuttoned hole of his boxers, he quickly ran a slick hand across himself, basking for a moment in the much needed relief. Then, carefully lining up he slipped inside, both men sighing in joined relief. “Fuck, Sherlock,” John groaned, pushing in until he was completely surrounded by the heat of that pliant body.

“John,” Sherlock’s lips were moving, one word his only available vocabulary as the sounds became a whispered moan. “John, John, Jo-- hnnn..”

“Yeah,” John’s lips had grown too dumb to even attempt Sherlock’s multisyllabic name. He set a slow pace in the beginning. Each push and pull rocking Sherlock’s weight onto his bound wrists, pulling stuttering gasps from kiss plump lips and a pulsing twitch from all eight arms. But as his eyes grew greedy, John slipped his hands from the pale hips and hooked each thumb into the loops of his true lover’s knot at the base of Sherlock’s weeping cock and he tugged.

Sherlock yelped, eyes shooting open. “Jo--” the rest was lost in a gurgle and a groan as John picked up the pace, pulling back with just his head left inside before driving back home. Harder and harder until he found Sherlock’s prostate and the bound man let slip the sweetest whine John had ever heard. A begging, keening sound built on pure pleasure. He was close.

Everything was a pulsing light in Sherlock’s mind, so many points of wet heat and contact of skin and resistance from the ropes and the rough cotton of John’s pants brushing against him with each hard thrust. His body was on fire, raw and red and begging pleading to let go. And Sherlock came with a scream, painting his belly where his bound cock twitched in its blue cage. John’s tangled hands sticky and pink.

The sight undid him and John was a mere two strokes behind, pumping hot inside before slipping his thumbs free to collapse at Sherlock’s side. His boxers were soaked and he kicked them off in a huff. A shiver and whimper from the taller man pulled John back into his headspace and he immediately reached up for the safety release and pulled. Sherlock’s tentacles pulled free and immediately wrapped around his doctor, slipping into short blond hairs and pulling him in for a deep kiss. John laughed into his open mouth before sweeping a tongue inside. “Sher--”

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “That was… amazing.”

“Yeah?” John asked, but his smile gave him away. He knew it was amazing. He was still reeling from how amazing it had been.

“Yes. fan. tas. tic. brill. iant.” Sherlock answered, accenting each syllable with a kiss. Meaning to echo every compliment John had ever given him. Then, Sherlock was sighing in relief as John released his wrists. Flopping back into the nest of pillows as the blond sat up to undo his thighs and massage the sore muscles.

John looked down as his hands worked and was struck speechless by how debauched Sherlock looked. His heart swelling in pride and adoration, he could feel his cock twitching, ready to do so many more things to the man below him. Sherlock felt the shift and laughed, “Round two already, Doctor?” and he winked but his own bound cock betrayed him by perking up at the thought. John laughed, Sherlock’s own eyes scrunching up as an answering giggle shook through them both. John knew then he would stay in bed forever to keep that smile on his lover’s face.

A tentacle swept between them, wiping away the sticky mess with a familiar swath of blue cotton but John was too elated to care. It wasn’t as if he didn’t need to wash them already. Sated and still floating on adrenaline and endorphins, John lie beside Sherlock and reached out for the smaller bag on his nightstand.

“I saw you staring at the wall,” he said, pulling two golden silicone cock rings from the small shopping bag. John set them on Sherlock’s chest and rolled into the taller man’s side. He set to peppering the expanse of pale neck with kisses as the fingers of his right hand trailed idly down to Sherlock’s cock, teasing over soaked knots and loosening the rope until it slipped free. “Maybe for tomorrow, if you’re interested?”

Sherlock laughed, “Oh John, you disgusting romantic.” He stared at the ceiling, eyes still glazed from his post orgasm high. A set of tentacles toying with one of the thin rings, as Sherlock hummed in thought.

“Guilty,” John said, smiling brighter and leaning up to pepper Sherlock’s cheek with lazy kisses as his hand tossed the mess of sticky ropes from the bed. Gentle surgeon’s fingers returned to massaging the soreness from his lover’s limbs. Sherlock’s form stretched out beside him, responding to every touch with soft moans, absently rocking his hips. John found his own body responding, his eager heart overflowing with joy, skin flushed in renewed arousal. He smiled wider, sure of himself, sure of their new relationship, finally sure of everything, “But you love me anyway.”

“I do,” Sherlock said and slipped the latex ring around John’s hardening cock.


End file.
